


in heavy mist / in glitter dust

by leetheshark



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Assassination Attempt(s), Cutting, Food, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roman smacks Victor in the face, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetheshark/pseuds/leetheshark
Summary: Roman is a pop star re-entering the world in the aftermath of an assassination attempt. Victor is a bodyguard with a secret hobby, who gets assigned to Roman’s entourage one night at the Gotham City Stadium.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	in heavy mist / in glitter dust

**Author's Note:**

> [moodboard](https://twitter.com/larrytrain0r/status/1348648424200142853?s=20)

Black Mask hasn’t shown his face on stage since the 90s.

Back then, people compared him to Prince, but really he was a phenomenon of his own. Flashy and unapologetic, Roman Sionis took the world by storm. Joining Iceberg Records when he was twenty, it only took him two years to climb to the top of the charts, and he stayed there for three more.

His reign ended on a damp Sunday afternoon, Roman fresh out of bed at 2 p.m., the sidewalk slippery under the heels of his designer boots. He was on his way to brunch with his parents, where—if he had made it—they would have told him they were cutting him off financially after too many sex and drug scandals.

Roman only had one bodyguard with him.

He was shot in the shoulder.

His parents cut him off anyway.

The police found books on Lee Harvey Oswald and Mark David Chapman in the shooter’s apartment. His desk was covered in fifteen-year-old newspaper clippings about John Hinckley Jr. In the interviews after the attempt, he made his motivations clear. He just wanted Roman’s _attention._

It’s not every day that a gay man tries to assassinate an out gay pop icon.

The press had a field day. Roman dropped off the face of the earth.

For the next five years, newspapers ran stories called _What happened to Black Mask?_ and posted blurry pictures of men that maybe-kind-of looked like him doing things like shopping for groceries and walking their dogs. One or two of them might have actually been Roman. Eventually, people lost interest.

There were other theories, some more outlandish than others, but the truth was that Roman moved out of Gotham City and holed up in his apartment for the next twenty or so years.

And then, in 2017, he released a new album. _Black Mask: Reloaded._ The pun wasn’t lost on anyone. Where his older albums all showed the same pretty face—sharp jawline and pouting lips, with red and gold makeup smeared over sparkling blue eyes— _Black Mask: Reloaded_ was instead solid black, with a minimalist and angular skull etched in gold. Tour dates began popping up, starting in New York and trickling down to Jersey and Maryland before slowly crawling toward the West Coast.

Most of the world had forgotten about him.

Once they remembered, his shows sold out in days.

(It was also, in no small part, thanks to his opening act: the up-and-coming Black Canary.)

Roman must have been nearing fifty, but he didn’t show it. His choreography was just as energetic as it used to be, and if he still did uppers backstage, no one had to know. He still wore his signature suits: a new one for every show, because even without his rich parents’ support, he was still drowning in money.

There was only one difference.

Whenever he made a public appearance, Roman wore a mask. Other than familiar blue eyes peeking out from behind the black skull, his face was completely hidden.

Some people thought Roman _had_ been killed in the 90s, and that whoever was performing under his name now had secretly replaced him.

Some thought he was just insecure; you can’t stay young and beautiful forever.

Both theories were, in a way, true.  


* * *

  
Victor Zsasz doesn’t listen to music much, and if he did, it wouldn’t be the kind that Black Mask makes. But that’s not part of his job. He’s protected the lives of plenty of people he couldn’t give less of a shit about.

At first, Victor bounced clubs, until the right person showed up on the right night and offered him a government job. For the next few years, he worked for a Jersey senator. Then he started to climb. They called him boorish and creepy, but everyone agreed that he was the best. He even came close to doing a stint with the governor in 2009.

But if you spend too much time around folks who pay too much attention, they might catch on to what you do in your free time, and for Victor, that would ruin everything. So he moved to the private sector. Now, he guards musicians and athletes, and no one ever looks at him too closely. When he gets assigned to Black Mask for an upcoming show at the Gotham City Stadium, it’s all par for the course.

“He survived an assassination attempt in the 90s,” Bertinelli says, when she tells Victor about the job. “He’s paranoid.”

“Okay.”

“He’s also apparently a world-class bitch. Think you can handle it?”

“I can handle anything.”

“Bodyguards have walked out on him before.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know. You’ll meet him at the staff entrance at six. After the show, you make sure he gets to his car, and you’re done for the night.”

Simple. Victor’s done it a hundred times. He shows up to the sold-out stadium at 5 p.m. in his SECURITY sweatshirt and windbreaker with his gun on his hip. Fans are already lining up outside the main entrance; some must have been waiting in the freezing cold for hours. Anything for the great Black Mask. If Victor didn’t have a personal rule against killing people he meets at work, he might consider following a fan home.

Inside, Victor warms his face with his hands and drops off his jacket in the staff area. He meets the rest of the security team, some people he knows and some he doesn’t. He keeps an eye on the ones he doesn’t. He still has half an hour before Black Mask is supposed to show up, so he takes a look around and notes the best paths to the exits. He needs to know how to get Sionis out safely, if anything happens. Backstage, he spots Black Canary sipping a La Croix and talking to a stagehand. She’s wearing a gold glittering floor-length dress with a slit up the leg and more earrings than Victor, which is saying something. There’s catering for the backstage staff, and Victor helps himself.

Sionis shows up at 6:15, fifteen minutes later than agreed upon, already wearing his mask. Between that and his suit and leather gloves, the only real parts of him that Victor can see are the strips of skin at his wrists and neck, and his eyes. They’re a clear and piercing blue, and Victor’s pretty sure he’s wearing eyeliner. Sionis doesn’t shake anyone’s hands or learn anyone’s names. That’s fine by Victor. Too many famous people are just like that.

Victor gets assigned to the stage left stairs beside a young guy with a scar on his face that Victor’s worked with a couple times before, whose first name Victor always thought was Todd, but it turns out it’s his last name (whatever). Victor doesn’t get to watch the show; he never does. He’s there to keep an eye on the crowd. He confiscates drugs, kicks out drunks, keeps people from trying to climb onto the stage, and communicates possible threats to the other guards through his walkie-talkie, which he keeps clipped to his belt next to his gun.

He only catches glimpses of Black Mask’s set, but between the backup dancers, smoke machines, flashing lights, and glitter confetti, it’s easily one of the flashiest shows Victor’s seen (and Victor’s seen a _lot_ of flashy bullshit in his career). Roman’s black sequined suit looked tacky backstage, but under the stage lights, he’s iridescent. Victor’s even starting to understand his appeal. People probably want to be him as much as they want to fuck him.

Too bad he’s an asshole.  


* * *

  
Roman doesn’t stick around to greet fans. After his encore, he has Victor and the rest of the security team walk him through the crowd and straight to his private car. Victor walks beside Roman, who he’s now realizing is a little taller than him, a little broader. But not that much. Maybe it’s just that the mask makes him look intimidating. Snow is collecting on the shiny black head, and Victor deliberately doesn’t stare.

Roman says something to Victor, something rude and insignificant. Victor tunes it out and focuses instead on something in his periphery.

At the edge of the parking lot, a man in a black hoodie is crouched between two cars. Victor’s worked stadiums long enough to know that he’s probably either homeless and seeking shelter from the snow or a fan who thinks he’s special enough to talk to Roman alone.

Victor’s still trying to figure it out when the man’s hand slides out from the pocket of his hoodie.

“GUN!” Victor shoves Roman to the ground with his left hand and draws his gun with his right. Two cracking gunshots ring over the parking lot, and Roman’s chattering devolves into a shriek. The would-be assassin’s bullet grazes the arm of the security guard who had, half a second ago, been right behind Roman. Victor’s bullet buries itself deep into the shooter’s chest. A fine spray of blood flowers into the swirling snow, but Victor doesn’t watch long enough to see it.

Victor crouches beside Roman. When he puts his hand on Roman’s shoulder, Roman tries to fight him off. “Hey,” Victor says. “Listen. You’re okay. I got you.” Roman lets out a wordless squeal in the two seconds it takes for Victor to scan the rest of the parking lot and make sure there isn’t another gunman.

“Todd!” Victor points at the fallen security guard. “Make sure she’s okay!” Victor chooses the next closest person, then points to the gunman on the ground. “You! Go!”

The guard Victor doesn’t know sprints across the parking lot to kick the shooter’s gun under the nearest car and check his pulse. “Clear!”

“Shooter down,” Victor barks into his walkie-talkie. “I’ve got Sionis.” He scans the parking lot again. Fans are swarming, and Roman finally lets Victor help him up. Victor holds onto Roman close, afraid to lose him in the crowd. He gets Roman to his car and into the backseat, and he’s on his way to start rounding up fans when Roman shouts—

“Wait!”

Victor stops in his tracks and turns around. The crowd of people between them parts like the Red Sea, and Roman is pointing directly at Victor with a shaking, gloved hand. “What’s your name?”

“Victor Zsasz,” Victor says, loud enough for Roman to hear him over all the clamor.

“Mr. Zsasz, you’re guarding my hotel room tonight.”

As per usual for a show this big, the stadium has a police presence and an ambulance on site already. EMTs take the injured guard to the hospital and cart off the shooter’s body after deciding there’s nothing they can do. (Not to brag, but Victor never leaves a job unfinished.) Victor gives his statement to the police and recites the events one by one, like he knows how to do from experience. He doesn’t leave Roman’s side for a second. The cop taking Roman’s statement flusters under Victor’s leer.

“This is a waste of my time,” Roman hisses. The cop doesn’t write that part down. Roman’s wrapped in a shock blanket in the backseat of his car, and he still doesn’t take off his mask. “You people couldn’t even keep me from getting shot at. Fucking useless.” Victor agrees, but he keeps that to himself. Afterwards, when they’re free to go, Victor finds someone who looks like he actually works for Roman and asks if he’s really supposed to guard Roman’s hotel room tonight. The guy says, he’ll pay you. Victor says, how much?  


* * *

  
Victor leaves his car at the stadium, with a promise from Roman’s driver to take him back later. He sits in the backseat with Roman on the way to the hotel, where he listens to Roman argue on the phone about changing his accommodations. Roman tells whoever he’s talking to that it’s a matter of life and death—“You want me dead? You want me fucking dead? Is that what you want?”—and after he hangs up the phone, he barks at his driver the address of the new hotel. Victor takes the time to text Bertinelli and explain that Roman’s hired (more like commandeered) him for the night, and that he’ll fill out the necessary paperwork as soon as he can.

At the hotel, Roman’s driver stalls behind the building while another one of his employees, who rode in the car behind him, checks in at the front desk. “You might wanna take off the mask,” Victor says. “Draws attention.”

“Fuck off.”

The employee brings out two key cards, one for Roman and one for Victor. Roman’s personal security detail (plus Victor) walks him into the hotel through the back entrance and takes him up to his room in the staff elevator. Roman barely says a word to Victor before disappearing into the room. The others depart, some back down the elevator and some into the room next door, leaving Victor alone in the hallway.

Normally, when Victor guards a hotel room, he’ll switch shifts with someone else halfway through the night. That apparently isn’t happening tonight, but Victor can handle it. Maybe later, he’ll get one of the other guards to bring him a coffee or four from the Keurig in the lobby. 

Victor’s been sitting on the floor for 45 minutes when the door creaks open behind him. He turns to see the maskless man fresh from the shower, wrapped in a complimentary white bathrobe, his hair still wet and cheeks shining with moisturizer. Victor stands up. “Mr. Zsasz?”

Victor almost doesn’t recognize Roman, but he’s seen the twenty-year-old photos. He can see the same young man in this face, behind the wrinkles of his eyes and the slightly overgrown scruff. “Mr. S.?”

“You should come in.”

“Why?”

“I need you to protect me, that’s fucking why. What if someone tries to break in through the window?”

“We’re on the twentieth floor.”

“So what?”

Victor knows better than to argue with the man paying him. “He wants me in the room with him,” Victor says into his walkie-talkie.

“10-4,” someone answers.

Victor steps inside. Roman closes the door behind him and fastens the safety locks. “Most people want privacy,” Victor says. He idles by the door while Roman flops onto the king-size bed.

“My life is more important.”

“You don’t have to worry about that while I’m here.”

“How confident of you. You can sit down, by the way. I don’t bite.”

There’s a desk with a rolling chair beside the bed, so Victor drapes his windbreaker over the back of it and takes up his post there. He puts his walkie-talkie on the desk, but keeps his gun at his hip; he can’t risk Roman (or anyone else) getting his hands on it. Then, he leans back, spreads his knees until they hit the arms of the chair, and rubs a hand over the scar on his lip. He’s only a few feet from where Roman’s lying, appraising Victor with his piercing eyes.

“You have scars on your face,” Roman says.

“Yeah.”

“How did you get them?”

“You’re not gonna like the answer.”

“That’s presumptuous of you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“At least you’re honest.” Roman turns his face to the ceiling with a sigh that rumbles through his whole body. “Too many people are fucking liars. You want room service? It’s on me.”

Victor’s brow knits.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” Roman says.

“Okay.”

Victor picks up the room service menu on the desk. Roman reaches over to nudge the desk phone toward him. “You can call. Get whatever you want.”

“You don’t want anything?”

“I’m too anxious. I’d get sick.”

Victor doesn’t really want to eat, especially when Roman isn’t. But, since Roman wants him to, he calls the front desk and orders mozzarella sticks and a vanilla milkshake. There’s a wine menu, but Victor doesn’t drink; even if he did, he wouldn’t on the job.

“You’re good at what you do,” Roman says, once Victor hangs up the phone. “Too bad you let me get shot at.”

“What?”

“You let me get shot at! Who the fuck lets a man with a _gun_ get close enough to even… to even _look_ at me? I mean, shit.”

“Outdoor security isn’t my job,” Victor says.

“Hm. Maybe if it was, he wouldn’t have gotten in.”

Victor decides not to worry about whether that’s an insult or a compliment. If Roman wants to berate him all night, at least he’s making money. Roman’s offered him three times his usual rate, which was already substantial. (Either Roman’s the type of rich guy who doesn’t care what things cost, or he’s the type of richer guy who doesn’t even _know.)_

And besides, Victor wouldn’t mind getting to stare at Roman all night.

Victor knew, back in the 90s, that Black Mask was pretty. He knew it like he knows that flowers are pretty—both have nothing to do with him. But now that Victor’s seen his face? Aging suits him. Victor keeps getting distracting glimpses of Roman’s chest hair under his robe, and his narcissism is, weirdly, kind of alluring. But it’s not like he can do anything about it, so he keeps his eyes to himself (unless Roman’s not looking).

When the room service arrives (and gets vetted by the guards next door), Roman decides he isn’t too anxious to eat after all. He steals the first sip of the milkshake and swipes a few mozzarella sticks. Then, he decides he isn’t too anxious to drink, either. He orders Victor to make him a drink from the minibar—which isn’t Victor’s fucking job, thank you very much, but somehow he kind of wants to do it anyway—and Victor improvises a discount Moscow Mule with ginger ale and a single-serving bottle of Grey Goose. It’s a hit. It takes a while for Victor to finish his mozzarella sticks, because Roman keeps making him get up and bring him either another drink or a mini water bottle.

Roman sips his drink and crosses one bare leg over the other in bed. Victor nibbles on his second to last mozzarella stick, trying not to drip marinara sauce on the carpet or his clothes. “So,” Roman asks, “you a fan?”

Victor thinks about lying and decides against it. “Not really.”

“Good. My fans are fucking insane.” Roman rubs a hand over his face. “God, this tour was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Victor says, because he feels like he’s supposed to. “I liked the show.”

“Mm.” Roman closes his eyes. His mouth curls into a small smile. “Of course you did. The show was fucking incredible.”

Victor’s starting to see it now: the war in Roman’s head between locking himself away to stay safe and seeking attention like he’ll die without it anyway. It makes him needy, and Victor kind of has a thing for men who act like they need him, but it’s whatever. Roman’s way out of his league anyway. And besides, Victor’s a _professional._

“You were good,” Victor says. “You were so good.”

“I _know!_ So why does everyone always want to ruin everything for me?” Roman finishes his third vodka ginger ale and cracks open his fifth mini water bottle. He chugs the whole thing at once and throws the empty bottle onto the desk next to the others, then heaves a full-bodied sigh and drops his face into his hands. _“Fuck!”_

Roman’s shoulders start to tremble, and it takes Victor a moment to realize he’s crying. Victor’s had to deal with a lot on the job. He’s never had to deal with this.

“Everyone hates me,” Roman sobs.

Victor puts his hand on Roman’s shoulder, expecting Roman to either bite it off or hit him. But Roman just keeps crying. “That’s not true,” Victor says. “Everyone loves you.”

“Then why do they keep trying to fucking _kill_ me?”

“They’re jealous,” Victor says. It seems to calm Roman down. He sniffles and wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“You’ll stay here while I sleep?” Roman asks.

“Yeah.”

“You won’t hurt me?”

“Of course not.”

Roman gets up and starts to undo the belt keeping his bathrobe closed. “Don’t look.”

“Sorry.” Victor swivels his chair around to stare at the curtains while Roman changes.

After a minute, Roman says, “’Kay.” Victor turns back around to see Roman in a white t-shirt (which stretches across his chest in a way that, if Victor were in a hornier mood, would be _really_ distracting) and purple pajama pants that look like they’re made of something expensive. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” Roman announces.

While he’s in the bathroom, Victor turns off all the lights except for the lamp on the nightstand, which he switches to its dimmest setting. Then he wonders why the fuck he did that, because Roman’s a grown man who can turn off the lights himself when he goes to sleep. Part of Victor wants to go to the trouble of turning the lights back on, but that would be stupid.

When Roman emerges from the bathroom, he crawls right back into bed. He turns off the nightstand lamp and curls up with his back to Victor. It’s a full twenty minutes before Roman finally falls asleep. Victor can tell by the way his frantic breathing steadies.

Without Roman to keep him busy, Victor plugs his phone into the USB port on the desk lamp to charge, using the faint glow of the streetlights outside to see, and checks his messages for the first time since the drive here. Five different coworkers have asked him if he’s okay. Victor puts his phone down on the desk without answering any of them. Then, he looks at Roman’s sleeping silhouette, picks up his phone again, and Googles Roman’s name. The first result is Roman’s Wikipedia page. Victor opens it.

He learns straight away that Roman’s middle name is Beauvais, his birthday is October 14th, and he’s 48 years old. That’s three years older than Victor. Victor scrolls down to the section called _Assassination Attempt,_ which he guesses will soon be updated to _Assassination Attempts,_ plural. He wonders if the new section will mention him.

The first one, Victor reads, happened on October 20th, 1996. The article doesn’t mention how it was six days after Roman’s birthday, but Victor notices, and it makes him feel kind of sad. Roman was shot in the right shoulder at 2:14 p.m. EST with a Glock 17, fifteen feet from the entrance of his apartment building on 68th Street, while walking to his waiting private car. The gunman was taken into custody right away. Roman was taken to Gotham General, where he spent five days in a hospital bed before disappearing from the public eye for 21 years.

There’s a link to a TMZ interview with one of Roman’s physical therapists, who the article notes consequently lost her license, about Roman’s condition. Victor doesn’t read it.

He skips over _Family Life_ and _Scandals,_ because he’s heard enough gossip to know that Roman wouldn’t want him to read about them. He skims over _Personal Life,_ where he reads about all the famous men Roman dated when he was young, and then scrolls back up to _Early Life,_ which barely has any information other than Roman’s parents’ names and the name of his private school. There’s also a whole section about Roman’s parents’ charity work. Victor doesn’t look at it at all.

He spends the next hour reading about Roman’s first assassination attempt. He wants to read the newspaper articles from the 90s, but they aren’t exactly easy to find, so maybe he’ll try later when he’s at a computer. Instead, he finds a Buzzfeed article from 2017 honoring Roman’s return with a true-crime-esque account of that day. How fucking disrespectful.

Victor reads about the gunman’s motivations and thinks, well, he _did_ get Roman’s attention, so maybe he was onto something. Roman’s probably thought about him every day of his life since then. It’s too bad the guy isn’t around to see it. He died of pneumonia in Arkham five years ago. Maybe that was part of what gave Roman the confidence to go on tour again.

Misplaced confidence, apparently. Victor doesn’t get what’s so special about this guy that so many people want to kill him. Victor might respect it if it weren’t so fucking pathetic, and he kills people for _fun._

Victor reads articles until he can’t find any more information he doesn’t know, and then takes out his pocket knife, because it’s been long enough and he can’t wait anymore. He killed someone today, so that’s one more mark. It would be cleaner to do it in the bathroom, but Victor doesn’t want to leave Roman’s side. He feels like Roman will throw a shit-fit if he wakes up and Victor’s not there. Victor ducks into the bathroom to clean his knife, then settles back into the desk chair, peels off his sweatshirt over the short sleeve t-shirt underneath, and switches the lamp back on to its dimmest setting.

Then, he picks a spot on his forearm, over the muscle and away from any arteries or veins, and makes his cut.

Roman picks the worst possible time to wake up.

“What the fuck?” He peels himself out from under the covers and squints at the blood dripping down Victor’s arm. “Are you cutting yourself?”

“Uhhh.”

“That’s fucking gross,” Roman says. He turns the lamp off and rolls over again. “Do it in the bathroom.”

Victor can’t argue with that. He’s done, but he needs to clean up, so he goes into the bathroom and digs around the drawers for the complimentary first aid kit. After he washes his wound in the sink and cleans it with an alcohol pad, he tears a strip from a roll of gauze and wraps it around his forearm.

That’s when Roman barges into the bathroom and starts rifling through his toiletries bag. “What are you doing?” Victor asks.

“I can’t go back to sleep.”

“Did you try?”

“What are you, my mother?” Roman pours mouthwash straight from a travel bottle into his mouth, gargles for a few seconds, and spits it out. “Get out.”

Victor goes back into the bedroom and plops back into the desk chair, then takes off his boots and kicks his feet up on the bed. When Roman comes back, he doesn’t object. He crawls into bed on top of the covers, rolls onto his back, and sighs.

Roman’s quiet at first, and Victor wonders if he’s going to fall back to sleep after all, but then he brings both hands to his face to rub at suddenly wet eyes. “Oh, fuck. Do you ever wake up the morning after something horrible, and you feel fine, but only until you remember?”

“Yeah,” Victor says. He knows that feeling well.

“How fucking _ironic_ would it be,” Roman says, “if the anxiety killed me instead?”

“You okay otherwise?” Victor asks. “You hungover?”

“Fuck no. I’m a professional. Haven’t you read the tabloids about my drinking problem?”

“No.”

“What about the coke? Heroin?”

Victor shakes his head.

“None of it’s true, anyway. I take stimulants before my shows. That’s all.”

“What about the drinking problem?” Victor asks.

“Well, that one might be true. You drink?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“Smoke what?”

“Hah!” Roman says. “That’s what I thought. You have any?”

“I’m working.”

“Too bad.” Roman crosses his arms over his chest and wiggles into the sheets, like he’s getting comfortable. “You like men, don’t you?” he asks, apropos of absolutely nothing.

Victor leans back in his chair, keeping himself steady with his feet on the bed. “What makes you say that?”

“Are you kidding? Look at you.”

Victor just shrugs. Roman didn’t have to ask if he was going to be _rude_ about it.

“Do you know how to give a massage?” Roman asks.

“No.”

“Hm.” Roman sits up leisurely and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Victor barely gets a glimpse of Roman’s soft chest and stomach, covered in graying brown hair, before Roman rolls onto his front and folds his arms under his head. “Rub my back anyway. It’ll calm me down.”

“Are you trying to have sex with me?” Victor asks. He wonders right away if he should have said it more delicately.

“Obviously,” Roman says.

“Why?”

“Who cares?”

“Me.” Because it might ingratiate him to Roman, Victor adds, “You’re way outta my league.”

“Nice thought.” Roman pauses. “You saved my life. You protected me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for protecting you. It’s my job.”

“I’m not trying to _thank_ you. Ew! How desperate do you think I am?”

Pretty desperate, but it’s not like Victor’s going to say that. “So…?”

“I trust you,” Roman says. “I don’t trust many people. I’m taking advantage. You should too.”

“Uh.”

“Consider it part of your job. I meant it when I said it would calm me down.”

Victor tries to remember whether it’s against the rules. He can’t remember it _not_ being allowed, so it’s probably okay… right?

“I’m not going to beg,” Roman says. “Yes or no?”

Besides, he’s working for Roman right now and not Bertinelli, right? So Roman’s rules are the only ones he has to follow. “Yes.”

“Good.” Roman nuzzles his face into his folded arms. “Now rub my fucking back.”

“You... want me to get on the bed?”

“Fucking shit, Zsasz. Yes, I want you to get on the bed. Get with the program.”

Victor climbs onto the bed and—taking some initiative—straddles Roman’s hips. He sits on the small of Roman’s back, careful not to put too much weight on him, and puts his hands on Roman’s skin. When he starts to press his fingers into the broad muscle, Roman breathes a soft little sigh that goes straight to Victor’s dick. “Take those rings off,” he mumbles, so Victor slips his rings into his pants pocket and goes right back to work.

It’s not anything close to a real massage—Victor just touches and kneads Roman’s back wherever he feels like it—but luckily, it pleases Roman enough. It’s a good thing he’s so loud. Victor knows exactly what he’s doing right and wrong. After a few minutes, Roman says, “Kiss my back.” Victor bends down and presses his lips to Roman’s spine. Roman shivers. “Mm, yeah.”

“You like that?”

_“Obviously.”_

Victor does it again, then kisses up the knobs of Roman’s spine. Once he reaches Roman’s neck, he pushes the few inches of hair at the back of Roman’s head out of the way and presses a kiss to Roman’s nape. Roman turns his head to the side, offering up the side of his neck, and Victor presses a triad of kisses there. “Oh, yeah, just like that.”

Victor nuzzles the underside of Roman’s jaw before kissing over the stubble. “So what are we gonna do? You got condoms?”

Roman ignores the first question and answers the second. “In the bathroom. My toiletries bag. Get the lube, too.”

Victor gives Roman’s neck a parting kiss before hopping out of bed. In the bathroom, he rifles through the toiletries bag, past travel bottles of three different over-the-counter painkillers, some lotions, and a blister pack of Viagra with one missing, until he finds what he’s looking for. When he goes back into the bedroom, Roman is lying on his back, still bare-chested and hard in his pajama pants. Go Viagra. Victor throws the goods onto the mattress and crawls right back into his lap.

What Victor didn’t notice before, was the small pink crater in Roman’s right shoulder. He’s seen gunshot wounds before. He recognizes it right away. It’s tiny, but something about it is fucking _stunning._ Victor’s dying to touch it—to feel it and kiss it and dig his tongue into the indent in Roman’s skin—but before he can, Roman grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him down for a real, messy kiss.

Victor slides off Roman’s mouth and ducks into his neck to lick a stripe up the long muscle, then kisses down Roman’s shoulder toward the scar. The second his lips touch it, Roman’s hand collides with his face. “Don’t fucking do that!”

Victor sits back on his heels. “Sorry.”

The look on Roman’s face quavers, like he can’t decide whether to be pissed or not. “Don’t touch it again.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Victor’s cheek stings. If he weren’t hard already, that would get him there. “Can I kiss you again?”

Roman thinks about it, and then says, “Yes.” So Victor kisses Roman’s lips, then puts his mouth back on Roman’s neck, and the way Roman sighs and moves beneath him is so good that Victor can’t believe he almost fucked it up.

“You can hit me again if you want,” Victor says between kisses. “I kinda like it. But you can also just tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Mr. Zsasz,” Roman purrs. He slides his hand over Victor’s back, then tugs at the collar of his t-shirt. “You’re just full of surprises. Now take off your shirt.”

Victor can’t get his shirt off fast enough. He practically throws it across the room. Roman’s eyes land on Victor’s body and go wide. “Holy shit.”

Victor grins crookedly. “You like ‘em?”

 _“Yes.”_ Roman puts a hand on Victor’s body and, with a sharp intake of breath, drags it over the dozens of scars criss-crossing his chest and stomach. “So, you like pain?” Roman asks. Victor murmurs an affirmative noise. “Is that why you cut yourself?”

“Not exactly,” Victor says. “I’ll tell you about it later, if you want.”

“Deal.” Roman takes Victor’s face in both hands and crashes their mouths together. Victor moans, because he can’t help it.

The extents of Victor’s romantic trysts for the last twenty or so years have been blowjobs in bar bathrooms. Sometimes receiving, but mostly giving. Victor gets almost everything he needs from killing, so no one ever touches him. No one ever touches him like this. Roman’s hands drift over every exposed inch of him, rough over both the scar tissue and the unbroken skin. Victor’s becoming increasingly sure he’d let Roman do _anything_ to him.

He still doesn’t let it slide when Roman fondles his gun—he’s a professional.

He carefully takes Roman’s wrist. “Hey! No.”

“Aw.” Roman faux-pouts. “Baby.”

“Sorry, boss. No one touches my gun.”

“I like it when you call me boss.” Roman wriggles his hand out of Victor’s grip. Victor puts a protective hand over his gun.

Instead, Roman grabs Victor’s dick.

“Unh—”

“Shit,” Roman says. He slides his other hand up Victor’s abdomen. “Your body’s incredible.”

“You say that to all your bodyguards?”

“Fuck no. I haven’t slept with a bodyguard since 1996.”

Victor sits up. “Wait.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Men are pigs. They say they love you and then they let you get shot. It’s not fucking important.” He grabs Victor by the shoulders and pulls him back down into a kiss.

It shouldn’t be such a turn on that Victor’s better at his job than Roman’s ex.

“I’ll treat you better,” Victor says, because his dick is starting to take over for his brain.

Roman looks up at him with flushed cheeks. “Prove it.”

“I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

“You fucking better.”

“I’ll do anything you want.”

Roman brings a hand to Victor’s face to cup his stubbled cheek. Victor takes a chance and nuzzles into it, then swipes his tongue against Roman’s palm.

“Ew,” Roman says. Victor thinks he’s made a mistake, until Roman giggles. “Good boy.”  


* * *

  
“You never told me what your scars are about,” Roman says, with his mouth half-full over breakfast in the hotel lobby. They’re sitting across from each other at a table for two, with Victor facing the entrance so he can identify any threats. The place is high-end enough that they actually have servers instead of a buffet. All complimentary. Roman orders three different things (“I didn’t eat last night,” Roman defends himself preemptively, even though Victor wasn’t going to say anything) and Victor gets a Belgian waffle with strawberry syrup, which arrives with real pieces of strawberry.

“You sure you wanna know?” Victor sips his coffee, which he doesn’t really need, because he got much more sleep last night, in Roman’s bed, than he planned on.

“That’s why I fucking asked,” Roman says. “And cover that hickey.”

Victor adjusts his sweatshirt collar.

“’Kay.” Roman waves his hand. “I’m listening.”

Victor hunches over the table. Roman leans in close to meet him. “I’ve got a scar…” Victor mumbles, keeping his voice low so that no one else hears. “...for every person I’ve freed from this world.”

Roman balks. “You mean _killed?”_

Victor nods.

“You’ve killed a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Victor says. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk. If Roman assumes it was all on the job, Victor isn’t technically lying.

Roman smiles. The skin around his eyes crinkles. “Wow. You know, all you bodyguards have probably killed a few people, but no one ever wants to _talk_ about it.”

“Guess I’m different.”

“If I wasn’t canceling the rest of my tour, I’d keep you around.”

“Keep me around anyway,” Victor says. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe.”

It’s impulsive, but he doesn’t regret it. Roman’s resulting smile is shark-like, and Victor wouldn’t mind seeing it every day from now on. “It’s a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE shout out to my beta [Jacketarearmpants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacketarearmpants) for giving me this idea in the first place and helping to make it SO much better 💙


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